Deep Tissue Relaxation
by GrayGreenLove
Summary: Draco Malfoy has become a renowned massage therapist-don't judge me, it'll be good, I promise-and Harry Potter is sent to him to relieve his muscle problems. Even with Draco's success and notoriety, he's left...empty. Will Harry be able to heal Draco too?
1. Sleep?

Disclaimer: I do NOT own any characters from the world of Harry Potter, they all belong to JKR-otherwise things would have been _very_ different ;)

**Chapter 1-Sleep?**

Harry Potter shifted in bed once again, his face contorted in a grimace of pain through the thin veil of sleep. His body tensed and tried to relax but the muscles wouldn't release. He rolled over yet again, seeking relief for his aching body. Harry had long since overcome his nightmares, now that he was no longer plagued by a connection to the most evil wizard to have ever lived and the scar on his forehead was just that-a scar. His sleep wasn't disturbed by horrific images and feelings that weren't his own anymore. Now it was his body that ensured his poor sleep. It had all really started when he and Ginny had gotten married right after the war; it had just been expected, even by himself, simply assumed by all that it would happen. Then...well, then nothing. Everything just became routine, even, well, even the little sex they had. It seemed that without the constant threat of death, Harry had very little interest in romancing Ginny. Or perhaps it was something else. Whatever it was, the experience wasn't one Harry cared to dwell on. Either way, Ginny had gotten frustrated and tired of Harry's apathy in their relationship, and when Dean Thomas came to stay for a week while interviewing for a job in London, she had taken the opportunity to reconnect with (now somewhat more mature) ex-boyfriend, and when he left for Manchester, she went with him. While Harry knew he should have been upset, the most he felt was immense relief, and a small sense of guilt for said relief; the yelling and crying was over, it was Dean's problem now, and maybe (probably), Dean could make her happier. The one good thing that had come out of their 4 month marriage was that Ginny had managed to make Number 12 Grimmauld Place mostly livable. However, after she left, Harry had thrown himself so intensely into his career as an Auror that his muscles seemed to have become knotted and tightened beyond repair, as he hadn't ever taken the time to try and relax them while he was living alone. He just worked, only leaving the Ministry for missions and sleep. Now the latter was hardly worthy of its title, with so many nights ending up like tonight. Harry's toned form lay half-covered by his blankets in one of the smallest bedrooms in Number 12. He had never been able to bring himself to use one of the enormous master rooms the house offered. Honestly, who needed that much space?

* * *

Miles away, just outside Wiltshire, a slim man the same age as Harry slept just as restlessly in a master bedroom the size of a small house. He lay spread out on a four poster feather bed that could have easily held 3 large men with comfortable space left between. The room was spelled to an ideal temperature for the aristocrat, and the thick, down-stuffed comforter and silk sheets rested over his body with light, warm caresses. And yet, every few minutes, just as the man in London, he would toss and turn, his body tensing and his face tightening. However, his muscles held no knots or soreness, and when his pale face creased, it was in fear, sadness, and anger; pain of a different sort. A moment later, Draco Malfoy's lips parted in a half sob that he would admit to no one, and his fingers clenched in the blankets, groping for something more than cloth. After a few seconds, he rolled onto his side, curling in on himself as tight as he could, as though trying to just disappear off the face of the Earth. A tear slid from one eye, and his hands clenched so tightly that his nails cut into the soft skin of his palms, leaving 4 little drops of blood in their place as he sat bolt upright, waking finally with a strangled cry.

Almost immediately, a house-elf appeared with a pop at his bedside, asking, "Master Draco is requiring assistance?"

Panting slightly, Draco focused enough to answer as calmly as he could manage, "No...no, thank you, Tibby, I'm fine, I'll just go back to sleep now." The elf gave him a slightly concerned look before bowing and leaving with another small pop. The elves cared about Draco, not just for him, as he was the first Lord of the Manor to treat them well. Once the elf was gone, Draco dropped heavily back onto his pillows, pale chest heaving with barely suppressed sobs as he was dragged forcibly down into the depths of his memories, the images burned into his mind's eye and replayed every night in his dreams. Another tear fell, and Draco dragged in a thin breath to sigh in disgust at himself and his weakness, then vaguely waved his hand to clear himself and the bed of the cold sweat he had awoken in. A few minutes later he lay awake, has breathing even, but his mind still a wreck. He hated himself for needing...something. He didn't even know what he needed, but told himself he shouldn't need anything or anyone more than himself.

"Malfoys are self-reliant." Of course, he had lost friends in the war, but so had everyone, why should he be so weak? And yet his dreams held images of the Room of Requirement on fire, Vince still inside, screaming and screaming...images of Hogwarts under attack, all the bodies...his home, the Manor, being used by some crazy, power hungry moron, and the hundreds of people he'd seen tortured and killed there. then there were the dreams that always started when he was younger, when he was happy, the dreams of his parents; his father, the strongest man he ever thought he knew, unable to find the will to live after everything, especially stuck in Azkaban, finally dying alone in a cell, surrounded by creatures hungry for his soul. Then his mother; he supposed he just must not have been enough for her. Coming home one day, finding the note in her beautiful script, and dashing to her rooms, hoping against hope, praying, he wasn't too late. But alas, when Narcissa Malfoy set her mind to something, there really was no hope of stopping her. So now he would always remember her that way-cold, beautiful, lifeless...laying pristinely on her bed, arms folded over her waist, carefully put together in her best dress robes, her hair half-back in the silver and gold hair-clip with the Malfoy crest in emerald and sapphire that Lucius had given her, her fingers pressed against her wedding ring, the only thing out of place being the tiny, empty crystalline bottle that had held whatever lethal potion she had chosen to reunite her with her husband. Even after that, the nightmares hadn't become this bad until he'd come out. After seeing so many people die, he was sick of hiding himself, and assumed his friends would continue to support him, even when they discovered his true sexuality. Unfortunately, he'd apparently been wrong. After losing friends and family in the war, then trying to forget those who chose to continue life on the darker path, Draco was abandoned by most of his few remaining friends for being gay. Pansy had been outright disgusted, and had screamed at him until she'd gone hoarse about being a pureblood and what his parents would think (that was one thing Draco didn't worry about, his father and mother had confessed to him when he was in 4th year that Lucius was bisexual). Theo had had a similar, if somewhat quieter, response, saying only a few words, all of which cut deep, before he left. So it had been with almost everyone, until only Greg and Blaise were left. They had both accepted it, Blaise more readily and easily, but Greg had soon gotten back to the same comfortable friendship they had always had. However, only 2 friends and the lingering sting of the other's abandonment, combined with the stabbing pain of loss left him hauntingly lonely, whether he would admit it or not (he would not, Malfoys needed no one).


	2. My morning

A/N: First, thank you so so much to everyone who reviewed/added this story to their alert/favorite list, it means more to me than I can put into words! You all are what inspired me to get chapter 2 written and published asap, I hope it's good enough! I love you all *squishes*  
Second, where there are single dash lines ("-") other than in words like house-elf, it's meant to be two dashes for clarity, but apparently this document manager edits those out to a single dash which might be slightly confusing but so far I haven't found a way to make it more clear, I'm sorry!

Please continue to read and review!

**Chapter 2-My morning**

Harry rolled over with a groan, reaching blindly for his glasses on the bedside table. His shoulders and neck protested the movement and he grimaced at the familiar pain. "Kreacher!", he called out hoarsely.

The surly looking elf appeared at his bedside; contrary to his appearance and past behavior towards Harry, he now treated Harry with the respect-if not the pure adoration-of his master.

With a bow, Kreacher asked, "Yes master Potter?"

"Please bring me a pain potion, you know where they're kept...one of the stronger brews please."

Kreacher popped out for a moment, then reappeared with a small bottle filled with deep blue liquid that Harry took and drank gratefully, although he couldn't suppress a slight shudder at the horrid taste as it went down. Pain dissipating slowly, he managed a small smile at the house-elf still staring at him with a bit of masked worry.

"Thanks a lot, Kreacher. Could you please throw together some toast and marmalade for me? I don't have time to make my own breakfast, I need to get in to the office early; I should've stayed later last night to follow the lead on that smuggling case-some idiot's bringing in baby chimeras...we don't have any clue why, but it can't be good. Vicious creatures, and they can't be tamed. I found a link to a man in Bath, he's been in trouble with the Ministry before, but never for anything this big. He's got some property that we need to go investigate. I probably should have set that up last night, but I was almost falling asleep at my desk..."

Now the elf showed his concern clearly, sounding almost scolding when he said, "Master was getting home very very late last night, he was not even eating his supper, only falling onto Master's bed to sleep. You is needing your rest sir. Kreacher is meaning no disrespect sir, but Kreacher is thinking you is working too hard sir. You is hardly sleeping or eating, only working. Kreacher is a house-elf, and is meant to work his whole life, but you is working harder even than Kreacher, and that is not good, not good at all for a wizard." By this point Kreacher's eyes were wide with sincerity and he was shaking his head at Harry so that his large ears flapped.

The care that the elf was showing was enough to make Harry smile a little more, though he also felt guilty for worrying him. "Alright, alright, I promise I'll be home for dinner tonight, ok?"

Kreacher did not look entirely satisfied, but nodded and bowed before exiting with a pop.

Harry allowed himself another grin at the elf's behavior, shaking his head as he slid out of bed. The grin quickly changed into another expression of pain as he put all his weight on his angry muscles. The potion had helped a little, but it seemed that even Hermione's superior brewing skills were being overcome by his horrific working schedule. His body was showing the strain of long nights hunched over a desk writing reports about longer days spent chasing criminals and dark creatures.

He had long since stopped taking care of himself, putting it off in the back of his head; as long as he was functional for work-clearly Kingsley thought he was, he had been promoted to Head Auror mere weeks ago-what did anything else matter? He didn't need to look good for anyone, he didn't have time to date. Or at least that's what he told himself-truthfully, Harry could easily make time, he just hadn't been interested in any women he knew. He could look at them and know that they were attractive, but he hadn't found himself attracted to them in any way. He had pushed that thought out of his mind however, chalking it up to exhaustion and the fact that he knew he didn't have time to ask them out...right, that was it.

Harry shook himself, trying to wake up whatever bits of muscle weren't fighting his every movement, but the action only served to increase his pain. He sighed, then moved to the wardrobe to dress. He stripped off the boxers he'd slept in, pulling out a basically identical pair and dragging them on, struggling to get them on in his early morning stupor, taking 3 tries to get his right leg in. Finally dressed in his typical jeans and plain muggle t-shirt, he slipped on his Auror robes, stepped in front of the mirror, and made a sound of exasperation at his hair. With his restless sleep, it was even worse looking these days. He grabbed a comb and tried to tame the nest, managing to get rid of the results of his tossing and turning, bringing it to its usual terribly messy state. Knowing within 10 minutes of his arrival at the office he'd be running his fingers through it in frustration, then going out to that property, all of which made any more work on it pointless, he abandoned the comb.

He stumbled down the stairs in his socks, finding one shoe on the second step and looking for the other for about 5 minutes til he found it half hidden under a chair in the front hall. Harry barely remembered taking them off last night; in fact, he barely remembered anything after apparating to the sidewalk outside Number 12. He hopped into the kitchen on one foot, pulling a shoe onto the other, hoping Kreacher had used his favorite marmalade on the toast-he was very hungry, having skipped dinner in favor of sleep. Sure enough, there stood the elf with 5 pieces of perfectly toasted bread covered in Mrs. Weasley's peach preserves.

Harry counted himself very lucky with the way things had turned out after his and Ginny's divorce; because she had left him, his relationship with Ron and the rest of the family remained fairly intact, ensuring him a continuing friendship with his Auror partner and best friend, as well as a continuous supply of Mrs. Weasley's fabulous cooking.

The elf set the food resolutely down on the table, his eyes narrowing at Harry, the unspoken command clear. Kreacher knew very well that Harry was intending to take the food and leave, but he wanted to see with his own eyes that Harry ate all of it before running off to the Ministry. Harry debated arguing for a moment, then with an inner sigh, he sat down at the table and began to eat.

* * *

Many hours later, Draco stretched luxuriously, a contrast to his far from luxurious night. He glanced at the large grandfather clock in the corner of his room, and yawned despite the fact that it was already 11:00. Draco failed to understand so many people's obsession with rising early-god knew he would never choose to drag himself out of his warm bed until at least 10 AM. 'Then again,' he smirked at the thought, 'lesser wizards than Malfoys rarely have the opportunity or skill to set their own hours in whatever they do.'

Draco had indeed worked hard to earn his reputation as the best in his field, miles above the rest. This meant that he no longer had to work around his clients' schedules, instead they worked around his. That meant **NO ****MORNING APPOINTMENTS**. Ever. As it was, Draco's first client today wasn't until 1:30, so he had as much time as he wanted. Smiling as he realized this, Draco stretched out under the covers, and called again for Tibby.

When the small creature appeared, Draco give her a kind glance as he said, "Tibby, I have an abundance of time before my first appointment of the day. Would you draw me a hot bath using my favorite salts, then make me a bit of brunch to have after?"

The elf returned the smile shyly (the elves still hadn't quite adjusted to a master who was anything but cruel, let alone kind), before nodding fervently. "Master's bath is being ready in a moment," she squeaked and immediately popped out. A second later, Draco heard the water running in his adjacent bathroom.

With another yawn, he slid out of bed and slid off the silk boxers he had slept in, shivering despite the heated air. The slim man hurried across the room to one of his wardrobes, opening it to pull out a thick, fuzzy robe, which he wrapped around his naked body, relaxing almost instantly into its soft warmth.

Draco then strode lazily into the bathroom, which was pleasantly steamy from the hot bath Tibby had already prepared. After shutting the door he hung the robe on the back of it. He checked to make sure the house-elf had placed a similar towel on the golden rack next to the huge porcelain tub, which stood on matching golden lion's feet, before stepping up next to the nearly steaming water.

He carefully put one foot in first, checking the temperature to be perfect-nothing less-then, upon his satisfaction, slipped his long leg in, followed swiftly by the other, then eased his whole body into the hot water. Sure enough, it was absolutely perfect, down to the degree; just at that splendid point where it stung ever so slightly until his skin adjusted. A moment later he sank down until he could rest the back of his head against the smooth edge of the tub and inhaled deeply, letting the steam fill his lungs. Tibby had used the correct salts-Draco's favorite scent, his own blend, and the one that generally clung to his person-hazelnut, pine, and oil from the Narcissus Poeticus flower, which gave off a thick, heady scent with traces of jasmine and hyacinth, and which calmed nerves and relieved tension. Draco let out the breath slowly, allowing himself to relax completely, closing his eyes in bliss.

After a few long moments of pure serenity, Draco opened his eyes and reached for the soap, also made with his personal blend of scents. He took his time washing every inch of his body, smoothing the soap over his skin, leaving it clean and soft. Finally, he replaced the soap and took a deep breath before sliding down entirely below the water. With his eyes closed he rubbed his face, then ran long fingers through his blonde hair. When he came up again, he took up the shampoo, also scented, and applied a liberal amount to his wet hair, proceeding to massage it through thoroughly but gently, sighing in pleasure as he rubbed his few tense points-his temples, the twin spots behind his ears, and the lower edge of his skull. Once his scalp and neck felt wonderful and he was satisfied that his hair was clean (after all, if a Malfoy let his hair go, who knew what was next?), he slid below the surface again and plunged his fingers through the silky strands to rid them of the suds.

Draco rose out of the water feeling wonderfully awake, clean, and warm, as well as hungry. He toweled himself dry methodically, making sure that no spot of skin was left damp, then brushed the remaining moisture carefully out of his long hair. He had grown it out since his youth, letting it reach his collar, and had stopped slicking it back, instead letting it fall gracefully into precise position without even a touch from him. After drying he considered wrapping back up in the robe, but as he was comfortably warm and would be getting dressed soon anyway, he decided to let his skin breathe for a few minutes until then.

He stepped up to the mirror to examine his appearance, then called his wand to him from under his pillow in the adjacent room, and carefully cast a (perfect, if he did say so himself) shaving charm, leaving his skin enchantingly smooth to the touch. With a curt nod to his reflection, he stepped back into his bedroom.

This time he approached a second wardrobe, from which he drew a new pair of dark green silk boxers (still a Slytherin at heart) and one of his favorite sets of robes-charcoal black with silver and green trim that twirled around the edges like vines, the silver bringing out the shine of his hair and eyes. Draco had no interest in wearing anything under his robes; in his opinion, everything else just got in the way. His robes were fitted flawlessly to his body, flowing over his fit shoulders and chest and highlighting his slim waist before hugging his hips and arse in a way that allowed him to move freely but stopped others dead in their tracks as they admired the tight curves.

Happy with how he looked, Draco left his room and took the long way down to the kitchen; he took the long way to avoid his parents' room and the memories it held, and had been eating in the kitchen as opposed to the main dining room (unheard of for the Lord of the Manor) for the same reason. However, no matter where he went in the huge house, every room brought back memories, good and bad, and all of it so empty...everywhere was empty, which was one reason Draco had developed such a rapport with the house-elves-they gave him someone else in the house, and they were someone to talk to.

Tibby was Draco's personal servant, so she was his main confidant, but most of the elves had lent a willing, if rather large, ear when Draco was most lonely. Still, when nearly the only personal interaction one has is with house-elves, one tends to crave human companionship. But Draco had been left too many times to seek out relationships; he still had Blaise and Greg, but now that Blaise had a boyfriend he was much less available, and Greg was great for simple things, like going to pubs and whatnot, but beyond that he was relatively flat. Which left Draco with nearly no one, a fact he was painfully aware of after nights like last night, when all he really wanted was someone he could trust completely, someone warm and strong to wrap him in their arms and let him cry, and just hold him until he felt alright.

He honestly couldn't remember the last time he'd truly felt alright. Maybe he never would again...maybe he was broken beyond repair...but he couldn't help that tiny glimmer of hope in the back of his mind that told him that if he waited long enough, fate _had_ to send him some kind of happiness after all the sadness it had dealt him so far, that someone was out there who could, for inexplicable reasons, love him and protect him from his dreams and heal the scars from everything that had gone wrong his whole life.

With that thought, he entered the kitchen and sat down to the food Tibby and several other elves had prepared for him, smiling at their worried faces; he had a feeling they knew more about what went on in his head than they let on. Maybe they had hope for him too.


	3. Sighs

A/N: I love all of you who are following this, and I'm sorry it's taken a few days to post chapter 3! With school going on now (Senior year, yay!), posts will probably be approximately once a week, but I may get some chapters out sooner than that!

Also, in response to Evening12's question about the type of universe: basically, I love JKR with all my heart, but I hate her epilogue with a burning passion; its only redeeming quality is that it gave us a bunch of next gen. characters to play with ;). However, for the purposes of this story, the epilogue never happened. Ginny and Harry got married because (as stated in chapter 1) it was just expected, and I didn't feel right about leaving that hanging in a future-based fic. This is not meant to be totally AU, I'm trying to follow what the books set up, but with my own future. So, I followed the Ginny/Harry romance that was so prevalent in the series, and then I killed it, muahahaha...

As for Draco, again, no epilogue, so no job specified beforehand (although it is in the description of this story, teehee), but it will become clear by the end of this chapter :).

Then there is Kreacher...that is a complication I have more difficulty putting into words...well, I guess the basic point is, no, he didn't betray Sirius in this universe. Of all the little bits of the books that I hated, that was especially so. I understand the need for a plot twist/explanation on JKR's part, but I just couldn't stand the idea; first, I don't think Kreacher would've been able to betray his rightful master, even if he did despise him. Second, I just hate how evil that makes him, maybe that makes me too Hermione-ish, but whatever :P. So, to sum up: No epilogue, so Harry and Ginny got divorced before having kids, Draco has no specified job until the end of this chapter, and also, Kreacher did not betray Sirius. Yeah.

Anyway, I hope that's all ok by everyone...and here's chapter 3, chapter 4 coming within the next week!

* * *

**Sighs**

The toast Kreacher had made held Harry over until around noon, when he was right in the middle of trying to keep half a dozen Aurors and another dozen blathering idiots from the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures (who had absolutely insisted that they needed a whole damned army to deal with the preliminary survey of the suspect's land in Bath) quiet and concealed enough to keep from tipping off any wrong-doers in the area.

As it was, he wouldn't be surprised if their blabbering about jurisdiction and who had the right to do what if they ran into this Hughes man or his supposed chimeras had warned the man of their presence already, and he was either was running or preparing for a surprise attack. Harry didn't even feel completely confident in his team's ability to deal with the latter properly right now, as flustered as they'd let themselves get already.

As the arguing grew louder than angry hissing yet again, he heaved an exasperated sigh and cast a silencing charm around their group so as to be able to raise his voice and berate them appropriately—a risky move, as it also limited how much those _inside_ the charm could hear of what happened outside, leaving them vulnerable to anything they couldn't see but might have been able to hear coming.

_**"What the bloody hell do you all think you're doing? I've been working my arse off on this case day and night for weeks, and this is our first break—my first break—in it, and you're going to fuck it up whining about seniority! I'll make this very, very simple for every single one of you: I don't give a damn what bloody department you belong to. Right now, you belong to ME. End of story. I tell you to do something, you do it, and at the moment I'm telling you to shut the fuck up unless you have something **__**important**__**to say."**_

Harry looked around at the gathered wizards, making fierce eye eye contact with each and every one to make sure he was fully understood. Just as he raised his wand to lift the silencing charm, one of the men from the Magical Creatures Department pointed at a spot past Harry, his frightened eyes darting between whatever he was seeing and Harry's angry face, seeming to be too intimidated to communicate past hand gestures.

His wand still half-raised, Harry turned to see what the incompetent bast...oh...that.

Spinning round to fully face Hughes, he took advantage of the still functioning silencing charm to shoot the only spell he knew of that flashed green like the Killing Curse (which happened to be a simple numbing charm) at the man who was also mouthing a spell Harry couldn't hear. As expected, Hughes' eyes widened in shock and terror and he leapt out of the way as fast as he could, sending his own spell off course.

Pulling down the silencing charm as he ran forward, Harry dodged a blast of red light from Hughes' wand, hearing it hit someone from his group a bit further back, but knowing it had only been a stunning spell. The next time he was not so lucky however; Hughes had regained his footing—and his aim along with it—and Harry cried out a moment before he felt blood pouring down his leg from the cutting spell.

Somehow he managed to stay on his feet, but he had no chance of running anymore; he had no idea what the other 17 people who were supposed to be helping him were doing, but they were clearly failing at their task. Of course the Aurors had set up temporary anti-apparition wards around the area, so the only way out was to get past them on foot. As Hughes knew that Harry was stuck on the spot, he took off in the opposite direction, firing more cutting spells over his shoulder, some missing completely, although a few others forced Harry to throw up hasty shield charms.

Finally he seemed to decide he was in the clear and just flat out sprinted, mere yards from the ward boundary. Harry positively _refused_ to lose this son-of-a-bitch like this, but he had no way of catching him on foot, and he was definitely out of range of any useful spells.

With a sudden burst of inspiration, Harry lowered the anti-apparition wards as quickly as he could, counting on the fact that Hughes was too distracted to notice the burst of intense magic fluttering through the entire area. Unfortunately, the wards had been set up by multiple wizards working together, and the single surge of power Harry had used to get rid of them all, along with his completely empty stomach and quickly draining blood, had nearly tapped him out. **Goddamnit where was his fucking team?**

Taking a deep breath and pulling together every bit of strength and magic he could find within himself, he screwed up his face and spun on the spot, his cry of pain as he twisted his injured leg sucked into empty space along with his body. A split second later, Harry and his cry of pain reemerged on top of an again terrified and shocked Hughes, knocking him to the ground as he prepared to disapparate from the first point he thought he could.

With a growl, Harry kneed Hughes in the chest, knocking what little air was left out of his lungs and forcing him onto his back so that Harry could grab his wand and stuff it into his own robes. After a moment of deep breathing, Harry found the strength to bind Hughes tightly, then attach the ropes to a nearby tree.

Only then did he look back to see what had become of his seemingly useless team. His eyebrows rose and he nearly let out a sigh of annoyance at the fact that he was clearly needed yet again. Apparently Hughes had thought it was a good idea to set his baby chimeras loose at the same time as he began his sneak attack, and now all the rest of the wizards Harry had brought were having much more difficulty than they should dealing with them.

After all, they were 6 Aurors and 12 people who had previously claimed to be experts at dealing with magical creatures, and they were all floundering in the face of beasts that were admittedly vicious and bloodthirsty, but that they'd also learned about since their first years at Hogwarts! If they wizards and witches who worked at the Department for Magical Creatures couldn't deal with them, then some serious hiring and firing needed to be done. If Harry's Aurors, who should be able to handle the worst kinds of criminals couldn't deal with them, he needed to rethink the Auror training regiment.

With a weary grimace of pain at his leg, he apparated again, this time to just within range of firing on the creatures. Harry scanned quickly, looking for injuries or anyone in serious trouble. Seeing no one who was really 'losing', just not winning, he began stunning the beasts at random, thankful beyond words that baby chimeras were still affected by magic. There were only about 2 dozen of them, and while that was a blessedly low number for taking down, it was an astonishing number of eggs Hughes must have attained, given their rarity and status as Class A Non-Tradeable Goods.

When Harry and the rest of the group had finally managed to subdue all of the monsters and the Department of Magical Creatures people were dealing with them, Harry pointed with a hand shaking from exhaustion towards Hughes' bound form across the field, indicating that one of his Aurors should go deal with the lunatic.

Once he could see that his silent orders were being followed, he summoned the last bit of his strength to apparate himself back to the nearest accessible point of the Ministry, entering in a half daze and making his way to his office. He sat down at his desk and mindlessly pulled a blank report and quill towards himself and began to write.

A few minutes later, Kingsley appeared in his doorway and Harry looked up at him blankly.

"Minister?"

Kingsley raised his eyebrows at him, clearly bewildered by his presence, and answered, "Weasley said you'd be here…he just came in with Hughes, and the Department of Magical Creatures has control of the chimera situation—"

At this, Harry snorted slightly, remembering his necessary interference in the 'chimera situation', but Kingsley ignored him. "He also said you got hit by a nasty cutting hex. Why the hell aren't you getting it healed?"

Harry answered in a stoic voice, going back to writing up his report of the hellish afternoon, "I'll deal with it later; I should finish this..."

Kingsley rolled his eyes incredulously. "Potter, you're losing your head. You need some rest. This is an order: get your leg healed, go home and eat something, then get some sleep, you're dead on your feet. No arguments. In fact, I don't want to see you back here for the next 2 weeks. You haven't taken a single vacation since you started here, you need it now. Weasley can finish that report, and he can hold down everything here until you get back. You know there aren't any current cases right now, you just closed the biggest one we've dealt with in months; he can handle anything that comes up. Go. Get out of here. Now. And don't think about work at all. Find some way to relax. I remember being an Auror; it takes a toll on the body. Find someone to work out the knots and kinks in your muscles. GO."

* * *

Around 1:00, Draco apparated past the complex set of semi-permanent wards around his 'office', all of which allowed him, and only him, through. He nodded curtly to the woman whose name he still didn't bother to know, who worked as his secretary/assistant, before continuing on into his personal rooms.

The relatively small building, which Draco owned and devoted to his business, was comprised of several sets of rooms.

There was the elegant entrance area through which he had just come, opened by the front desk run by…what's her name…then leading into the serene waiting area, within which an entire wall was taken up by a silently pouring waterfall.

There were two doorways leading off of the waiting area, the clearly visible one clients used to reach the rest of the building, and the one almost hidden by the waterfall, which was sealed to allow only Draco to pass.

He was currently striding down the second hallway, the plush carpeting muffling his footsteps to near silence. At the end of the hallway he stepped through a door and into a simply furnished, and yet subtly beautiful room, with several more doors leading off of it, although these were all open doorways.

The room was clearly lit by magic, as no lamps were visible anywhere and yet there was a warm light covering everything, dim enough to force no strain on the eyes. The floor was a lightly colored wood, almost as quiet when stepped upon as the carpet outside, while the walls were a deeper paneling, contrasting sharply and complementing perfectly at the same time.

The furniture appeared to be carefully chosen from the most expensive and luxurious options available; there was a leather couch large enough to be a bed against one wall, two matching chairs across from it, and a table that matched the walls taking up a small amount of the space between.

Draco moved through this room with hardly a second glance, and through the first doorway off of it.

The lighting here was similar: clearly magical but also a bit brighter, almost bordering on harsh, but not quite there. Here there was a bathroom nearly as lavish as the one he used at home; the most obvious difference being that instead of a huge standing tub, there was what looked like a small sunken swimming pool surrounded by taps, just like the Prefect's Bath in Hogwarts, although it had a few taps of Draco's own invention, including several with the different forms of his personal blend.

Past the bath there was a large counter for his use, the cupboards under, around, and above it filled with anything Draco might need to refresh himself away from home. Today he simply wanted to splash his face with water in an attempt to clear his features, if not his mind, of the haunting memories of his nightmares.

Looking back at his reflection in the mirror which nearly covered the entire wall, he sighed, accepting that this was as good as he was going to look.

Considering how gorgeous he knew innately was, a bit of sadness was highly unlikely to be noticed by his clients, especially as they spent most of their time with their eyes closed.

Draco strode back out of the bathroom and through the main room, leaving back down the carpeted hall again, ignoring the other doorways, although he knew he would need them later.

It was 1:15, and his 1:30 appointment was most likely already waiting by the waterfall, knowing he would not tolerate lateness. He was almost at the end of the hallway when he turned sharply and went through a door that took him straight into the first hallway off of the waiting area without having to go through that room.

This hallway was carpeted similarly to the one leading to his private quarters, but this was shorter, and at the end were two identical oak doors, one on the right and one on the left. Draco really only needed one, as he only saw one person at a time, but he liked to allow each one to stay as long as they wanted after their appointments, and, should they take full advantage of that, he therefore needed a second room to accommodate his next client.

Both rooms were empty and locked now, but with a murmured word he entered the one on the right. Inside, the furnishings were a bit more blatantly lavish than he preferred, but he needed to present an air of superiority, expense, and aristocracy, as those were the type of wizards and witched he catered to.

This wing of the building wasn't lit by magic, so Draco had to light several candles held in frosted-glass sconces around the edges of the room with an absent-minded wave of his wand. The flames kept this room even dimmer than he kept his own, giving it a peaceful, almost sleepy quality.

Standing in the center of the room, clearly the focal point, was a sort of low bed. However, it was much firmer than a normal bed and had no head or foot, nor a pillow. Extending from one side was what appeared to be a head rest, much softer and more cushioned than the rest of the pad.

Taking up the entire wall opposite the door was a dark mahogany cabinet, filled with several fleece covers and cushions for the bed, oils, potions, stones, and other assorted charmed items he used when he worked.

Standing against one of the adjacent walls was a much smaller closet and a bench for his clients' use. There was a door in the third wall which led to a small washroom, also for clients.

Draco went to the huge cabinet and took out cushions and blankets and proceeded to make up the low bed. Usually he would have balked at this kind of 'servant's work', but he knew his personal attention to set-up and detail was a big selling point for his business. Besides, smoothing the soft blankets out flawlessly was sort of…cathartic, in a way.

When he was satisfied, he glanced at the small, beautiful crystalline clock hanging on the wall above the bench. 1:25. Perfect.

Leaving the door open behind him, he fixed a pleasant smile on his face and strode back down the short hallway, this time opening the door into the waiting area. Sure enough, there sat Ms. Moore, a regular of his, her eyes fluttering to him as soon as the door opened.

Forcing himself to widen his smile welcomingly he said gently, "Good afternoon, Audrey". As much as Draco hated using clients' first names, especially the women's, the flirtatious edge that it gave him—and that he so despised—made it possible for him to raise his prices even higher, and damn it all if he was going to let that Malfoy charm go to waste.

Pulling himself back to earth, Draco stepped to the side to hold the door for her, making sure his smile stayed fixed in place. He led her down the short hall to the open door, again stepping to the side to let her enter first, though this time he did not follow.

"You know what to do Mrs. M-Audrey. Robes in the small closet, use the washroom if you like, then lay face-down under the blankets. Take your time; call me with the bell when you're ready."

He shut the door quietly behind himself, then walked across the hall to the identical, empty room, opening it with the same murmured word, and sat down on the bench to wait, knowing she wouldn't be long.

A few minutes later, a small chime sounded, seemingly out of nowhere; in fact, it was a very complicated little charm that had taken Draco several tries to get right. When Mrs. Moore set it off it would technically ring throughout the whole building, but it was only audible to Draco.

He resignedly rose to his feet again, shutting this door behind him on his way into the first room. Thank Salazar she lay face-down the whole time; not that she wasn't attractive (although that was pretty much a moot point, given Draco's...well, 'tastes'), but he didn't think he could stand forcing a smile for an hour while also working his magic—literally and figuratively.

Striding back to the large cabinet, he examined several huge shelves full of different oils, though not one bottle contained his own private blend; he didn't consider his clients worthy of its quality, even if they would pay the extra galleons for it.

"Lavender and green tea leaves, if I remember correctly?" he asked politely, knowing he remembered perfectly well.

She giggled and said in a voice that sounded as though she was in a strict library, "Oh yes, I'm an old fashioned girl, I love the lavender."

Personally, Draco hated the scent, not only because it was so cliché, but he would of course never say so in front of a client...

So, with an inaudible sigh of annoyance, he picked up the proper bottle, stepped back to the bedside, and conjured a small table to set the oil on. Moore was only here for relaxation, she had no muscular problems or major knots—unlike the multiple professional Quidditch players Draco was seeing—so she needed nothing more than the oil, heated blankets, and Draco's skilled hands.

Pulling the blanket down to her waist, he poured a liberal amount of oil onto his hands, rubbing them together to heat it—though it was already charmed to warm on contact—before letting his mind disconnect and beginning her massage.

* * *

Hugs to everyone! *Squishes*


	4. Letters

A/N: I'm so so so so sorry this is so late *begs for forgiveness at everyone's tapping feet*! I didn't have a computer at home from last Tuesday to this Monday, so that screwed me up a bit, and I suffered a tad bit of writer's block on this chapter, but I PROMISE that ch. 5 will be much more timely and much longer!

Again, Disclaimer: I do not own any of the original Harry Potter series characters, they belong to the genius that is JKR (otherwise things would NOT have ended as they did in the epilogue...*growls*) Also, Adult Language Warning!

I hope you enjoy, please read and review, or at least read, and if you add this story to your alerts it gives me a huge ego boost, hint hint wink wink ;)

**Chapter 4-Letters**

Nearly 18 hours later, Harry rolled over and stretched. His muscles still ached, even more so after the raid on Hughes, but almost all of his exhaustion was gone. Now however, his stomach was angrily grumbling for attention. After Kingsley had sent him home, he'd barely healed his cut—just enough to stop the bleeding—let Kreacher force-feed him some soup, then collapsed in bed, and hadn't woken till now.

Almost as soon as Harry reached for his glasses, the elf appeared with a pop, surprising him.

"Have you just been waiting for me to wake up, Kreacher?" he asked incredulously. Surely the elf didn't care _that_ much.

"Yes, Master Potter, sir. Well, not _just_ waiting, sir; Kreacher is making Master Potter some breakfast. It is just after 8:00, sir, and you hasn't eaten since 2:00 yesterday. You is being hungry, sir?" The elf looked up at him with huge, earnest eyes.

Harry nodded quickly, his stomach again rising to the forefront of his mind.

"Yeah, yeah, I'm starving. I'll be downstairs in a second, just let me get dressed."

"That is not being necessary, sir, Kreacher will bring it up here." Without another word, the elf disappeared, leaving Harry alone for only the few moments it took for him to fumble his glasses onto his face, before popping back in with a huge tray of steaming food.

There was a large plate of scrambled eggs, along with an equally large plate of bacon and sausage. Next to that there were 5 or 6 pieces of toast covered in Mrs. Weasley's marmalade. There was also a platter of hashed potatoes, and a glass of fresh pumpkin juice—something Harry rarely had time for.

Immediately, Harry's mouth began to water, and he looked at Kreacher with almost loving gratitude.

"Wow…thanks so much Kreacher, that looks amazing."

Setting the tray resolutely on Harry's lap, Kreacher said sternly, "Master must be eating more, Master is getting too thin and not having enough sleep. Now that Master is having slept, Master must eat."

Harry didn't need telling twice; he picked up the fork and dug in.

About 20 minutes later, there was a curt 'Tap, Tap' at the window. He looked up to see a ministry owl sitting outside with a letter in its beak.

With a sigh, Harry shifted his half-finished breakfast to his bedside table, threw the covers back, and went to the window. As soon as it was let in, the owl dropped the letter on Harry's pillow and sat down next to it, presumably to make sure he read it.

"Guess Ron couldn't handle everything, huh?" Harry asked it as he broke the ministry seal to open the letter. However, he was soon gaping speechless at the letter, his eyebrows raised in slight disbelief.

_ Potter—_

_ I know you wouldn't do this for yourself no matter what I told you, and you don't have anyone else to do it for you, so I took the liberty. I told you yesterday to find someone to work out the knots and tension in your muscles and I meant it. I made you an appointment with the best wizarding masseuse in Britain, or for that matter Europe. He has quite the reputation; he treats Quidditch players as well as private clients._

_ I'm __ordering__ you to take as many appointments over the next 2 weeks as you need (take his advice on that) or want, all on the ministry. The appointment is for 11:00 this morning, be there on time or he'll make you reschedule. There's a portkey on the owl's leg that'll take you to the building. He doesn't give away the location, but once you've been there you can apparate yourself to the front door, although he's got a whole load of wards around the place so you can't actually get in unless he wants you to._

_ Keep your wand with you, just to be safe, you'll see why when you meet him._

_ I expect to hear from him that you showed up, he made me prepay._

_ Signed,_

_ Kingsley Shacklebolt, Minister of Magic, Order of Merlin: Second Class, Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot_

* * *

After finishing Mrs. Moore's massage, Draco left her to rest as long as she desired in her room, then went to ask his secretary for his messages. Sure enough, as soon as he stepped in front of her desk, she flashed a smile at him and said, "Mr. Malfoy! Your 3:30 cancelled, even though I told him you would be reluctant to give him another appointment very soon after such a late notice cancel. Also, here are your letters."

Draco had all of his mail sent to the office, so he wasn't bothered with it at home. If anything was desperately important, the sender would specifically address it to the manor, or his secretary would forward it to him as soon as she found it. The only time that had ever happened, he had received the owl directly at the manor, and it had been from Azkaban—informing him of his father's death.

"Oh, and this just arrived from the Ministry..." she said, sounding suddenly interested in his mail.

He eyed her curious face for a moment, and then took the letters, turned on his heel and walked away to his rooms.

Sitting down in one of the leather chairs and tossing the ministry sealed envelope onto the table, Draco proceeded to flip through the rest. A note from Blaise, inviting him to dinner at the new restaurant in London tomorrow night. A carefully written letter from a hopeful woman in Bracknell practically begging him to take her on as a client. Unfortunately for her, he was about at his limit for new clients, but he would file her letter away in case space opened up. Last, another bit of hate mail from Pansy (she sent one at least once every two weeks) that he couldn't help but read, even though it stabbed deep and reopened wounds that never seemed to fully heal.

With a sigh, he picked up the ministry letter and went into the room opposite the bathroom, which revealed a large four-poster bed, similar to the one he had at home, though a bit smaller. Flopping laying down (Malfoys never flopped, no matter how depressed), Draco ripped open the Ministry letter with perhaps a little more force than necessary.

Expecting a thick, pompous sheaf as was the Ministry's custom, he was rather surprised when a single page written on what appeared to be simple note paper from someone's desk fluttered out of the envelope. His eyes widened as he read in a mixture of shock, outrage, slight smugness, and incredulity at the nerve of some people—namely the Minister of Magic.

_ Malfoy—_

_ I feel we can dispense with the pleasantries, this is purely business for both of us, but if necessary I will not hesitate to make it more than just a request, though I hope it doesn't come to that and this relationship can remain cordial._

_ I'll be very frank. I have an Auror who hasn't taken a day off in his life; he's on ordered leave for the next two weeks, and I want him to relax and fix up his body before he comes back here._

_ I know what you do, everyone does—I must admit, you're a legend, as soon as I started looking, all I found was your name, you seem to have burned the competition to the ground. I don't know much about your business except that you're the best, and the rest I honestly couldn't care less about._

_ Whatever you charge, the Ministry will pay. I want you to bring him in for as many appointments as he needs or wants, and I want him given the best. I also want confirmation from you that he's coming and being treated._

_ I would like his first appointment to be at 11:00 tomorrow morning, I know you don't normally take clients before noon, so you'll have that time empty for him._

_ Please send your response promptly._

_ Respectfully signed,_

_ Kingsley Shacklebolt, Minister of Magic; Order of Merlin: Second Class; Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot_

Draco only barely controlled the urge to crumple the letter, the cherry on top of the shitty day he'd already had. Even if Shacklebolt was the Minister, surely he didn't have the right to order Draco—a fucking Malfoy, no less—around! But since the war, Draco had learned not to fight the atrocious world of politics and bureaucracy, just to avoid it as much as possible, thus his job, which he had thought was just about as far away from that universe as possible; apparently the fucking politicians had found a way to drag him back in.

Draco resented everything and everyone who worked with or for the government simply on principle; no leader he had ever seen had done one damn good thing, in fact, quite the reverse. After the horrors of being under the reign of Voldemort while the Ministry did nothing to stop him, it was hard to trust anyone to control the lives and fates of so many. In fact, beyond government, it was damned hard to trust anyone period.

With a low growl Draco summoned a quill, parchment, and ink, and swiftly penned a note which he thought to be extremely polite given the circumstances, naming his fee and stating that he wanted it before-hand. He also made it quite clear that if this Auror was even one minute late he would have to reschedule. Last he spelled out his policy on transportation and informed the Minister of the complex wards around the building; finally summoning and attaching one of his basic portkeys for first appointments.

Then he scornfully dropped the letter onto the bed and strode angrily out of the room. He made straight for the bathroom he had used briefly earlier, stripping off his robes as he went. Upset as he was, he still hung them carefully in a wardrobe behind the door, which proved to be full of several 'spare' clothes, though they could hardly be called spares; they were just as elegant and well-cared for as those in the Manor.

Tossing his boxers and socks (he had shed his shoes by the bed) onto a shelf in the closet, he pulled out a large towel to hang on the rack by the pool-size tub.

He turned a few of the knobs around the edge of the pool, then stood watching it fill for a few moments before slipping in and standing on the low ledge that held him high enough to keep his head above water.

When the tub was full of cool, blue water that smelled purely of Narcissus to help calm him down, he stepped off the ledge to tread water for a few moments, breathing deeply, before kicking away from the side and pushing into a harsh pace of laps.

Draco was intentionally pushing himself to his limits—which was surprisingly far—to lose himself in the heavy breathing and steadily building ache in his muscles, until his body wouldn't push anymore. Finally, he came to a stop, clutching at the side and breathing in short pants and gasps of pain.

Draco had come a long way physically since his youth, his habit of swimming away his troubles helping him significantly, and his body, while still very slim, was covered in lean muscle, giving him the simultaneous look of Malfoy elegance, grace, and beauty with his curving waist and slender hips, as well as the slightly intimidating appearance that comes with so much visible musculature.

It took him a few moments to realize there were tears streaming down his face mixed with the water. Swearing loudly, he unconsciously tightened his grip on the tile of the side of the pool, then relaxed it, then tensed again, seeming unable to control this emotional manifestation.

Realizing this, he cried out desperately into the empty, echoing room, his hands flying up into his wet hair to grip the blonde strands punishingly tight.

There were no words at these times, just an awful swirl of painful emotions dragging him further and further down, forcing him to feel everything…everything…all the fear left behind by the memories; the tons and tons of despair weighing on him from everything he'd lost; the loneliness: that horrible desperate loneliness that creeps deep into the heart and soul whenever they're vulnerable, clawing and eating away at anything it finds, leaving only this all-encompassing darkness to take over whenever it wishes; and of course, the never-ending longing for something, for someone to save him.

A/N: Please review! I half-heartedly apologize for the angstiness of this chapter (and warn for possibility of a little more in the future)...but once a character and his/her back-story is created, they take on a mind of their own (wow I sound cliche), so blame Draco...although who could blame someone so sexy for anything? This is necessary for the story-line I'm trying to make, even if it does make me want to cry :'(, so this is how Draco has to be (for now, muahahahaha...*schemes*)

And in case anyone is wondering, yes, I have had extensive personal experience with depression, and what Draco is going through is very real and very true, and I could write a novel about it, but I prefer to keep the angstiness to a minimum as I like writing other parts better and I have a feeling everyone likes reading those other parts better, too. But, for its briefness, the descriptions of Draco's dips into depression should be fairly realistic, coming from a first-hand account.

Anyways, on a very very happy note, no worries, they'll ~finally~ meet next chapter! YAAAAY!


	5. Eyes

Wow, I feel like a terrible person...please don't hate me! I won't babble on, I'll just give you the next chapter which has taken me an unforgivable amount of time to write; I'm so sorry! *Grovels*

So here's the usual: I don't own Harry Potter or the associated characters/previous plotline, those belong to the genius JKR. Also the usual Warning for Adult Language.

Please enjoy, read and review, or just read, and if you want to make my day add the story/me to your alerts/favorites, it makes me extraordinarily happy (although I don't deserve it after the long delay between ch. 4-ch. 5).

**Eyes**

Harry stared at the letter from Kingsley for another few moments before turning slowly back to his breakfast, though he wasn't nearly as ravenous as before. He sat on the bed, still staring at the note, processing.

Finally he looked at the clock, and realized it was already half past nine. If Kingsley was right about the strict punctuality of this 'masseuse', whoever he was, Harry should leave by 10:30 to ensure he was on time.

With a sigh, he walked out of the bedroom and into the bathroom across the hall. Stripping off his pants, he turned on the shower, letting it go almost too hot before stepping in. He let out a sigh of pure bliss as the nearly scalding water pounded his aching body.

The heat and pressure always relaxed Harry's muscles for the few moments he spared for the shower. Today, as he had a little extra time, he took the time to enjoy the water running down his skin.

After several minutes he reached for the bar of soap and proceeded to rub himself down, wincing slightly when the suds dripped over the large cut on his leg, but ignoring it.

He closed his eyes and let the water slowly rinse him clean, then moved the soap to his hair, tipping his head back and moaning as the movement stretched the tight muscles there. He ran his hands down the back of his neck and around to the base of his throat.

Once he had rinsed his hair clean as well, he stood in the shower for a few long moments more, eyes closed, shoulders hanging as low as they ever did as the hot water temporarily released them, until he forced himself to shut off the water and step out.

Grabbing a towel out of the closet, he carelessly dried off, all the pain in his body returning by the time he had finished. Harry moved toward the steam-covered mirror and sighed exasperatedly and, at the same time, resignedly at the state of his jet black, wet, and perpetually chaotic hair.

Currently it looked even worse than usual, having been sprayed harshly with water, rubbed down with soap, sprayed again, and then mussed up with the towel. Summoning his wand from his bedroom without a word, he performed a quick drying charm on the rumpled locks, which, although it did succeed in fully drying the mess, left his hair looking even more like a tornado had swept through it.

Grabbing the brush off the edge of the sink, Harry began to pull and jerk at the knots and tangles, to little avail. Several minutes later, when the only progress he had made was to make it look like he had just climbed out of bed.

Harry had let his hair grow out longer since Hogwarts, the ends curling against the nape of his neck, though this just made it harder to tame.

Hanging the towel on a hook on the back of the door, he crossed the hall quickly, goose bumps rising on his bare skin within the few steps to the warmer bedroom.

Stepping across to the small cabinet, he pulled out his standard plain white t-shirt and muggle jeans, along with a pair of green boxers. Tugging the boxers and jeans on, he munched on another piece of toast before bothering with his shirt.

Looking at himself in the mirror, he suddenly worried that he was underdressed; from what Kingsley had said about this man's punctuality, requirement of payment before-hand, secrecy of location, and exclusivity of clients, he probably expected nicer apparel.

Glancing at the clock, he saw that it was already 10:20. Jerking the wardrobe back open and stripping down again, he threw things aside, trying to find _something_ this man might deem acceptable. Finally, he pulled out a pair of dark trousers that he hadn't worn in months, and an emerald green button-down shirt, a Christmas gift from Ginny several years ago.

Slipping both on and looking in the mirror once more, he was slightly more satisfied with his appearance, although he wished there was something more he could do to fix his hair.

Grabbing socks from a drawer, he took the stairs down to the main floor two at a time, knowing it would be a fight to find his shoes again. However, he skidded to a halt at the bottom, finding himself what would have been nose to nose with Kreacher if the elf had been taller.

"Your shoes, sir," Kreacher said bluntly, holding them out.

"Er, thanks, I was just going to look for those," stuttered Harry, taken aback again by the elf's…proactiveness.

Pulling on his socks and trainers, he said a still uncertain goodbye to Kreacher, cast a Disillusionment Charm on himself, and walked out the door.

Once beyond the wards of Number 12, he pulled the portkey out of his pocket, examining it closely. He found it to be nothing more than a small, unmarked disk.

Shrugging at the choice of such an easily lost portkey (or was that purposeful?), Harry tapped the small circle silently with his wand, again using no words, just as he did for most spells; his magic had grown in power far beyond the necessity for loud incantations.

The portkey glowed blue for about ten seconds, then returned to its original plain state. That meant Harry had the same amount of time before…_**there**_. No matter how exactly he knew what was coming, how prepared he was, the jerk that pulled him much too roughly and quickly through space always shocked his body.

After a long moment of the literally gut-wrenching travel, Harry found himself dropped unceremoniously about fifteen yards from a large, unmarked building built in a distinctly modern style, that somehow managed to be simultaneously simple, beautiful, and slightly intimidating, all at once; it made Harry wonder about designer.

Walking forward, he noticed there was no door. Looking around in complete bewilderment as to how he was supposed to enter, he noticed what looked almost like a keyhole, though it proved to be slim, smooth, and slightly curved at the top and bottom, on the far right side of the front wall.

A stroke of inspiration hit him, and he pulled the used portkey out of his pocket, hesitated, and then slid it in. It fit perfectly, and moments after it disappeared, the slot itself began to widen—reminiscent of the entrance to Diagon Alley—until it finally formed a thin, elegant archway.

Harry removed the Disillusionment Charm and walked forward warily. As he passed through, the arch was already beginning to shrink back to something resembling a keyhole. As soon as it had returned to its original size, it dropped something small onto the floor, which rolled for a few moments before stopping near Harry's feet.

Bending down to pick it up, he found it to be the disk he had used as a portkey and then a key of sorts. Mystified, he stared at it, remembering Kingsley's note that he would be able to apparate here once coming by portkey once. If that was true, why did he still need this portkey?

"It's so you can get back in for your next appointment," a bright female voice said, making him jump. He turned around to see a young woman sitting behind a small desk covered with papers that seemed to have some organizational scheme, though Harry couldn't begin to fathom what it was.

"Are you the…the masseuse I'm supposed to see?" Harry asked, stumbling over the word.

The woman laughed good-naturedly; "Oh no, no, I'm just the secretary. Go down the hall and take a seat in the waiting room—the room with the waterfall—and he'll be with you soon. Good thing you came early, he's in a bad enough mood having to come in before noon, I would fear for your safety if you were late, too. Someone very powerful must have made him give you a morning appointment."

She clearly hadn't spotted his scar, a benefit of keeping his hair longer; that, coupled with the fact that one of his conditions in taking the position of Head Auror had been for Kingsley to help keep the press off his back and his picture out of the papers, had led to fewer people recognizing him without the benefit of seeing his trademark lightning bolt.

If the woman had recognized him, she would have—wrongly—assumed that his identity was the reason for his special treatment. As it was, she was correct in her current assumption: someone _very_ powerful had gotten him (and forced him to take) this appointment, which was apparently infuriating to the person he was trusting his pained—and not to mention presumably naked—body to.

Feeling even more nervous and irritated with Kingsley, Harry gave the secretary a half-hearted smile and said his thanks, then moved off down the thickly carpeted hallway to the left of her desk.

Until he reached the room at the end of the hall, a part of his mind had been pondering the secretary's words: "the room with the waterfall"; surely she meant a painting or some such mundane landmark. Therefore, it was a slight shock when he stepped into a small but welcoming room that featured…a real, flowing, bubbling waterfall, covering almost the entire wall to Harry's left.

Harry was taken aback, but he had been trained too well to miss the small door that was cleverly hidden (but not completely obscured) beside the edge of the tumbling water. However, on the wall opposite to where he stood, there was a very obvious door that he assumed he himself was meant to enter, with a clock hanging beside it.

There were several seats set around the wall of water, and a glance at the clock told him he still had ten minutes before this stranger was expecting him. Taking a deep breath, he sat down in one of the chairs, finding it to be leather and very comfortable. Again, Harry wondered about the designer; the building, the waterfall, the furnishings.

A few minutes later he could have sworn the room had been sealed and he was slowly pulling all the oxygen from it. Forcing himself to relax (as if that were possible), he managed to stop wringing his hands, shaking one of his feet, and tensing all of the muscles in his body.

Unfortunately, he couldn't make himself stop looking at the clock every few seconds, and when it hit 10:59, it was all he could do to keep himself from standing up and pacing.

Finally (or so it seemed to Harry, though it had truly only been several minutes), the main door opened. Harry's head snapped to the man with his hand on the doorframe, already halfway out of his seat. The pale face, framed by long blond hair, had a calm, welcoming, and—obvious to Harry's interrogation trained eyes—faked smile fixed in place, but it lasted for only a fraction of a second before his grey eyes connected with Harry's.

* * *

Draco had been extraordinarily angry this morning (**morning** being a key word). He had been forced to take on a **new**client by the fucking **ministry**, his—he shuddered to even think the pathetic un-Malfoy-ish word—_breakdown_yesterday had brought some of the worst nightmares and sleep he had fought in months, it was 11 fucking AM and he wanted to be at home in bed, and the minister had not merely ignored the notion that Draco might not want a morning appointment, he had known and demanded it anyway.

Slamming the door of his bathroom, then realizing he had slammed a door, Draco had stopped and breathed heavily in and out for a few moments until he could fix his "client smile" onto his face, then left his personal rooms.

He had come in at 10:00—imagine it, what was the world coming to?—and made sure the treatment room was satisfactory, then spent the remaining time steaming and working himself up emotionally.

Walking down the hallway to the waiting room like he had done hundreds of times relaxed him somewhat; this was routine. It's your job, get over it, You're A Malfoy. He tensed slightly at the words as he always did when he heard his parents' words.

Stopping behind the door to the waiting room and trying to rid himself of all the poison in his mind, he reached for the doorknob, one hand turning the handle, the other resting lightly on the wooden frame.

His relaxed posture and forced smile dropped the instant his eyes found brilliant green looking up from under jet black hair.

Even with the longer—though still messy—hair hiding his famous scar, the emerald eyes shining from behind slimmer, silver framed glasses instead of heavy, unattractive black ones, and a body matured by 6 years of adulthood and Auror work, Draco would never fail to recognize his childhood enemy.

* * *

Harry Potter stared back at Draco, just as silent, just as shocked, just as frozen; time had stopped for the two of them, their gazes locked seemingly indefinitely, unblinking, both men stunned beyond words and movement.

The clock showed the seconds ticking by as they remained motionless: Harry halfway out of his seat, Draco with his hands fixed on the doorknob and frame; grey and green eyes locked, though their true sight was trapped in the void between them.

Neither spoke a word to fill the void, though it was consuming them, each falling deeper into the dark abyss that existed in the space between them, each becoming further and further ensnared in the other's gaze, plunging down and down and down into emerald green or icy grey eyes…until the first word was spoken.


	6. First Touch

A/N: Hey all...so I'm finally back. This story was never meant to go on hiatus, but I suppose that's basically what happened. I'm really, really sorry to all of you, my loyal followers, you deserve better! It's been a long, hard road from when I last posted to where I am now, in many ways. I've started university, and I absolutely love it, plus my best friend/roommate is as much a fangirl as me, and we've started writing together! I'll let ya'll know when we post something. It'll probably be in the next month or so, and of the Star Trek: 2009 variety (K/S pairing), and very smexy. I also went through some emotional bullsh*t and some obnoxious friend stuff, which was the main reason I stopped writing for so long; it all gave me a bit of writer's block...but I'm away from all the drama now, so yay! I really am doing much better, so there won't be another issue like this that would stop me from writing for so long again (except finals haha). I know this chapter isn't extraordinarily long, especially after the disgustingly long wait, but it is the beginning of a normal schedule for this fic. I hope you all can forgive me...I'm very sorry! Hugz?

Well, here it is at last, read and enjoy, and review even though I don't deserve it!

* * *

"Pot...Potter." The stutter was nearly imperceptible, and so completely out of character for Draco Malfoy that Harry almost missed it, almost overlooked it as a mistake on his part; he must have misheard, Malfoy did not stutter, Malfoy was calm, cool, and collected.

It would've been a cliché description if not for the fact that, well, it was the only way to describe him, the only way to describe **any **of the Malfoys.

_They're all the same, all upholding the family history, name, and honor above everything—every__**one**__—else_, Harry thought as all the old feelings of resentment and animosity resurfaced.

He would never admit it, even to himself, but there was a hint of bitterness in his thoughts; perhaps he and Malfoy could have been—no, they could never have been friends—but maybe, just maybe, they could have not been such terrible enemies. But Harry could never allow these thoughts to pass through his mind, because they would never come true. This Malfoy is the same as the rest of them, and he'd change for no one.

But if that was the long and short of it, how did Draco end up a masseur, of all things? Harry was fairly positive no one else in the Malfoy line had ever taken up that particular profession. So something must be different about Draco, something must be unique, or something must have changed.

These were confusions for later, not for when Malfoy was still staring at him with those piercing silver eyes (Harry forcibly pushed away the next question on his quickly growing list: _since when do I pay attention to Malfoy's eyes?_).

* * *

Taking a deep breath, Draco pushed the implications of his verbal slip out of his mind, and, with a deep breath, tried again. "Potter." He spoke firmly this time; it wasn't a question, shocked, surprised, or resentful, just a statement of fact. His voice was flat, emotionless, and cold, and for once he wasn't forcing it to be so.

Honestly, he knew he would react later, but for the moment he simply stared blankly ahead at the man in front of him. Draco waited, somewhat impatiently; he had broken the silence after all, now it was Potter's turn. However, the brunette seemed, for the time being, entirely dumbstruck.

With a long-suffering sigh, Draco dropped his previously frozen hand from the door frame and took a step into the room, letting the door close behind him. "Generally, Potter, when directly addressed by someone it is customary to respond. Out loud."

Harry seemed to shake himself out of his thoughts and quickly rose the rest of the way out of his seat, extending his hand to Draco. _The perfect picture of ministry diplomacy_, Draco thought with disdain.

"Sorry Malfoy, just a bit…well…" Harry shrugged and trailed off.

"As eloquent as ever, I see," Draco retorted, customary sneer finding its way onto his face. A moment later it disappeared and he muttered, "I apologize, that was childish. Old habits, you know." With a visible effort he reached out and shook Harry's hand, forcing the smile back onto his face.

"I take it you didn't know who the ministry was sending for treatment?" Harry asked, trying to overlook the novelty of Draco Malfoy apologizing.

"I assume Shacklebolt thought I would object if he told me. Not that it would've made much difference; he made it fairly clear that I do not have the option of refusing."

"Would he have been right? Would you have refused?"

Draco contemplated this for a few moments, before shaking his head slightly. "If I didn't protest at the cruel hour he set for the appointment, I doubt I would have bothered, simply because of you."

Harry smiled at this, shaking his head slightly as he marveled at how some things just never changed, like Draco Malfoy's need to sound superior to everyone around him.

"Regardless, it seems neither of us really has a choice here, so I suppose…" Harry gestured vaguely at the door Draco had come out of and tried his damndest not to blush at the prospect of carrying through with the appointment.

Draco straightened and gave a curt nod, rather reminiscent of his father, before spinning on his heel and opening the door. A smirk ghosted across his face as he inclined his head and motioned for Harry to enter ahead of him. Once in the dimly lit hallway, Harry turned back questioningly to Draco, trying to hide the building nervousness.

All appearance of humor gone, Draco pointed down the hall, his manner and his tone all business. "First door on the right. There's a bathroom at the back of the room, and you can put your clothes on the bench." He paused, then decided the direct way was the best. "Strip down to your pants, lay down on your stomach on the bed, and pull the sheet up to your waist."

Harry opened and closed his mouth twice, standing stupidly in the hallway as he tried to comprehend what Draco had said. Smirking again, the blonde raised an eyebrow, then gave Harry a gentle push toward the room, saying almost reassuringly, "I'll give you ten minutes, then I'll be in."

* * *

Harry gazed apprehensively around the small room, already counting down the moments until Malfoy returned. The place was oddly inviting, the air warm and mysteriously sweet smelling, the lighting dim, and everything coloured in deep earth tones, giving Harry the feeling he had stepped right into a summer evening.

Unfortunately, the welcoming effect was slightly ruined for Harry by the focal point of the room: the large—admittedly very comfortable looking—massage bed, sheet already turned down for him. Trying to ignore the all too obvious fact that he was about to be almost naked, in a bed, being touched extensively by Draco bloody Malfoy, Harry walked past the bed and into the small bathroom.

Looking at himself in the mirror, he was surprised by how pale he looked, and wondered if that was just today or if everyone saw him like this; if the latter were true, it would definitely explain Kingsley's concern and his forced vacation. He stepped up to the sink and splashed water on his face, hoping to both make it look less corpse-like and to shake himself out of whatever uneasiness Malfoy had brought out.

The towel hanging beside the counter was disgustingly soft and fluffy in Harry's opinion, until he realized that opinion probably stemmed purely from the bitterness of his history with Malfoy. Taking a deep breath, he walked back into the main room, only to be greeted by the sight of the bed yet again, immediately destroying the small amount of calm he had gained in the bathroom.

After a moment he dropped his eyes from the bed, squared his shoulders, and began to strip resolutely. For Merlin's sake, a massage table, no matter the masseuse, should be much less intimidating than a bunch of illegal chimeras. Toeing off his shoes and socks, Harry pushed them under the offending piece of furniture before slipping out of his jeans and pulling his shirt over his head. At first he dropped them in a pile on the bench, but then thought of Malfoy's reaction, and folded them neatly.

Although the room was fairly warm, Harry couldn't help but shiver a bit in nothing but his boxer briefs, and so moved quickly to the bed. It turned out to be magically heated, as well as very soft, so Harry slid in with very little hesitation. Only after turning onto his stomach, positioning the sheet as he had been directed, and letting his face rest in the conveniently placed circular pillow did his anxiety return full force.

In just a few moments Draco Malfoy would walk through that door and touch Harry in ways that seemed incredibly intimate…Harry drew in a shaky breath, trying to calm the odd butterflies that had sprung up in the pit of his stomach at the prospect.

* * *

Outside the door of the treatment room, Draco took a similar breath as his thoughts unwittingly paralleled Harry's. But what choice did he have? Even if it wasn't for the bloody ministry, Draco carried tremendous pride in his work, and this was his work…not to mention the hit his reputation would take if word got round that he refused to treat the Saviour because of petty grudges and an immature ability to get over the slight—okay, damned massive—awkwardness.

Shaking his head at the absurdity of the whole situation, Draco forcibly raised his hand and gently rapped on the door. "You ready?" he called, hoping he didn't sound as tentative as he felt.

Unfortunately, Potter's voice answered almost immediately "Yeah, come in."

Draco pushed the door open, resisting the urge to literally drag his feet only by reminding himself that he chose this job, and that without his professionalism he would be nothing. "So, what's the problem, then?"

Potter hesitated, then spoke to the floor, "Um, I guess my back sort of hurts, and my neck, too. Kingsley just said you would help me relax."

Draco could practically feel the brunette's blush as his last few words sank in, and chose not to comment on the implications. "Well, if it's muscular there's definitely something I can do about the pain, but I won't really know until I feel it all." Draco could have rolled his eyes at how his own words sounded in conjunction with the existing awkwardness, and again decided just to move on.

"And as for relaxation, that's a pretty basic expectation of massage. I suppose for today I'll just give you the full body work up, it'll let me know what I'm working with, and give you an idea of what to expect. Standard appointment length is an hour, but Shacklebolt made it clear I'm not to be stingy, so we'll just play it by ear, shall we?"

Harry was still trying very hard to wrap his head around phrases like 'feel it all' and 'full body work up' when he got stuck on the idea that this whole experience was going to continue for an indefinite amount of time; he had been counting on an end at the hour. But Malfoy, as usual, sounded so damn calm that Harry couldn't help but try and match his even tone as he said to the floor, "Sounds fine by me."

There was a pause, then Malfoy snapped his fingers. "That's what I forgot. What oil would you like?"

Harry was completely thrown by this question, and after a few silent seconds, the blonde actually chuckled and said, "Right, sorry, you wouldn't know. I use heated massage oil, and I have over 100 different varieties, some of which are my own creation. What I meant was is there any particular scent you'd prefer?"

Though glad to understand, Harry still had no answer, and settled for a half shrug and a few mumbled words of apathy. Draco laughed again, and Harry was surprised by how…warm the sound was; he found he liked it.

"I'll just start with what I use on most of the Quidditch players: sandalwood and oak with a hint of leather." The pride was evident in his voice, and Harry presumed it was one of the oils he had created himself; clearly he had found an outlet for his talent with potions.

Harry realized Malfoy was waiting for his approval, and quickly answered "Sounds really nice", then winced at his own ineloquence. Being around the silver-tongued Slytherin made him very self-conscious of how his speech compared. A moment later, the scents Malfoy had mentioned filled the room, and Harry was surprised by how well they complemented each other, putting him in mind of the old days on the Gryffindor Quidditch team.

He wondered how much time Malfoy had spent getting the ratios exactly right, and remained distracted as the blonde moved quietly to stand over him. All thought of brooms and hand brewed oils derailed in Harry's mind as Draco's hands, hot and slick with the oil, slid slowly over his skin.

* * *

A/N: So there it is. I hope it was satisfactory...and you can expect another within the next 2-4 weeks, I'm already hard at work on it! I have to find time to write between my pre-law studies, but I promise I do and will!


End file.
